


from a free point of view

by etben



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: ...in both the literal and the euphemistic sense, Anonymous Sex, Fantasizing, Happy Ending, M/M, Massage, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25365973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/pseuds/etben
Summary: “Okay, so.”  David blinks, his heart rate slowing.  “So, just to clarify, you’re saying that youhaven’tspent the past three weeks secretly stewing about this.”“I mean.”  Patrick fidgets.  “Not in abadway?”(In a sexy way)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 54
Kudos: 347





	from a free point of view

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to leupagus and whetherwoman for cheerleading and heckling, and to J for making me write the ending. See end for content notes.

“What was it like?”

The question comes in the middle of a sunny afternoon, and it takes David a moment to blink his way back to reality. He closes his book over his thumb, turning towards the other end of the couch to face Patrick.

“Well, I’m only two hundred pages in, but I actually think you’d really like—”

“No, not the book.” Patrick makes a face and shifts against the arm of the couch, tucking one leg under himself. “The— _you_ know.”

“I...no?” David waits, but Patrick doesn’t elaborate, won’t meet his eyes. “Um, I’m going to need a little more detail here, honey.” 

“I—Never mind.” Patrick shakes his head. “It’s nothing, I’m being dumb.”

“Mmm, could be.” David leans forward and grabs his bookmark from the coffee table. Dorothy Dunnett is going to have to wait. “Tell me anyway?”

“It’s just—” Patrick sighs, heavy and gusty. “Before the wedding, when I was dealing with the venue, and you were—with the, uh.” He bites his lip. “The massage guy—”

“The masseur,” David says, his chest going cold and hollow. “Richard.” He swallows twice, trying to clear the lump that’s suddenly in his throat. “But you, you said that you didn’t mind—”

“No, I know, I did, I _do_.” Patrick leans in close, rests his hand warm and soothing against David’s bare calf. “I meant it, David.” He tucks his thumb into the crook of David’s knee, rubbing back and forth in a slow, gentle reassurance. “It’s fine, David, I swear.”

“Okay, so.” David blinks, his heart rate slowing. “So, just to clarify, you’re saying that you _haven’t_ spent the past three weeks secretly stewing about this.”

“I mean.” Patrick fidgets. “Not in a _bad_ way?”

“Um, _what?_ ” Even as he says the words, though, David is already putting it together: the dull flush creeping up the back of Patrick’s neck, the tension in his shoulders, the press of his teeth against his lower lip. “Wait, are you saying that you—”

“You know what, this was stupid,” Patrick says, the words tumbling over each other in a rush. “I’m sorry, I should have—I need to—I’ll just let you read your book,” he concludes, staring off into the middle distance like their living room contains the secrets of the universe. He claps his hands against his thighs in a parody of his usual decisiveness and starts to stand, only to come up short as David grabs him by the shoulder.

“Mmm, yeah, no, sorry, I’m gonna need you to—there, exactly.” David shoves his beloved husband back onto the couch and climbs into his lap to hold him in place. “Now, just to be clear: this is a sex thing, right?” Patrick flushes even darker and won’t meet David’s eyes, which is basically confirmation, but— “ _Patrick_.” David rests two fingers under Patrick’s chin, coaxing him out of his defensive hunch. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page here.”

“I—yeah,” Patrick says, after a long moment full of silence and fidgeting. “Yeah, it’s—” He swallows. “It’s a sex thing, I guess.”

“Thank you for telling me.” David gives him a kiss, long and slow and lush, hands soothing through Patrick’s hair in a silent reassurance. It’s important to provide positive reinforcement for good behavior, after all.

They lose a little time like that, trading soft kisses in the quiet of the afternoon. Patrick missed a spot shaving, and David rubs the pad of his finger over it, savoring the scrape of pale stubble against his skin. Patrick slides his hands under the hem of David’s sweater, his thumbs tracing circles at the base of David’s spine, easing out the cramp David’s been half-ignoring all morning. It’s the kind of easy intimacy that David never expected to have, never thought he even wanted, familiar and exciting all at once.

“Okay,” David says, once he finally pulls away. “Okay, so we have two options.” He frowns. “Maybe three options? Some options, anyway.”

“Options.” Patrick’s gratifyingly hazy expression disappears, replaced by his Serious Business Face. “Okay, let’s hear them.”

“Well, we could table this whole conversation for now,” David says. “Or for always, if you want.”

“I—” Patrick frowns. “But you wanted to know.” 

“Yeah, well, I want a lot of things.” David shrugs. “An espresso machine, a weekend in Venice, a formal apology from Harry Styles.”

“David, no.” Predictably, Patrick refuses to be distracted by David’s valiant attempt to lighten the mood. “David, I don’t want to keep _secrets_ from you.” Which is just—

“Okay,” David says slowly, feeling his way through the sentence. “Okay, I know you _think_ you mean that? But, like.” He rests a hand on Patrick’s face, rubbing a thumb over the worried curve of his eyebrows. “You know that it’s totally fine if you don’t tell me everything you think about, right?”

“Really?” Patrick raises a dubious eyebrow. “Because—”

“Okay, yes,” David allows, “big stuff, absolutely, please do tell me. Anything with the store, obviously. Major illness or injury, family drama, concert tickets, haircuts…” He bites his lip, thinking. “If someone hits on you, I want to know about that, I guess. Oh!” He raises a finger. “And you have to tell me _right away_ if you’re thinking about getting any kind of piercing. And—”

“I will.” Patrick’s smile is full of old regrets, all of the things they’ve gotten past but can’t quite forget. “David, you know I will.”

“I—” David takes a deep breath, lets it settle him. “I do know that.” He leans in for another kiss, soft and lingering. “I trust you,” he tells Patrick, the words still startling even after all this time.

“And I trust you.” Patrick frowns again. “But doesn’t that—I mean, shouldn’t we—”

“And _because_ I trust you,” David continues, “I am _completely fine_ with you having fantasies you don’t tell me about.”

“You...are?”

“I am.” Patrick looks dubious, which is...probably fair, honestly. David braces his hands on Patrick’s shoulders and tries to find the words for what he’s feeling. “Look, if it’s something you actually want to _do_ , then yeah, sure, we should talk about it. But some things are just—” He shrugs. “I mean, do you want to hear my fantasy about Katharine Hepburn?”

“Like, the actress?” Patrick’s face wrinkles in adorable confusion. “Isn’t she dead, though?”

“Ugh, ew,” David says, rolling his eyes. “ _Obviously_ it’s a time-travel fantasy.”

Patrick looks unconvinced. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“You sure? It’s a good one.” It is, too, starring Hepburn in her breakout 1932 role as the Amazon warrior Antiope. She bends David over a convenient ledge and fucks him until he cries, pulling his hair and telling him how pretty he is, all while wearing a pair of absolutely _phenomenal_ gold sandals.

“I mean.” Patrick shrugs. “I guess, if you really want to tell me?”

David considers it—it’s a _really_ good fantasy, after all—but shakes his head. “No, you wouldn’t appreciate it.”

Patrick’s frown deepens, his eyes wide and earnest. “David, if it’s important to you, I don’t want to—”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying.” David squeezes Patrick’s shoulder, trying to ease some of the tension that’s building there. “My _point_ is, sometimes there are things that I think are hot, and you don’t, and that’s _okay._ ” He shrugs. “I mean, I’m sure you have some fantasies that I will have absolutely _zero_ interest in.” 

“I—” Patrick’s flush is as good as a confession. Something with hockey, David suspects, which, _ew_.

...although they did manage to make the baseball costume work, so really, who knows?

“ _Anyway_ , that’s not even the point.” David shakes his head, clearing away the memory of Patrick’s ass in those baseball pants. “The point is, if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to, now or ever.” He presses a hand to Patrick’s cheek and waits, watching the thoughts chase each other across Patrick’s face: doubt, shame, uncertainty, concern. “I mean it,” David says softly, tapping his fingers against Patrick’s jaw. “Trust me?”

“Of course.” Patrick’s response is immediate and unquestioning, the words followed promptly by a kiss to the inside of David’s wrist. “Always.”

“Well, then.” David presses a kiss to the patch of creased skin just above Patrick’s eyebrow. “Glad we’ve gotten that sorted out.” 

It’s not really sorted, of course. Patrick has a hard time with wanting, still, with letting himself ask for what he wants, saying things out loud. David knows that, just like he knows Patrick’s favorite baseball troupe, his favorite color, his favorite movie. David even knows some of the _why_ , little things pieced together from late night conversations and significant pauses, the things Patrick says and the things he doesn’t. They haven’t fixed that with this conversation, David knows, not any more than they fixed it any of the other times they’ve talked or fought about it.

Still, it feels—better. Easier, maybe; more settled.

“I love you,” he tells Patrick, just because he can. “Even if you never tell me about any of your kinky hockey fantasies.” Patrick sputters indignantly, but doesn’t deny anything, doubtless because David’s right. “Also, huh.” David tilts his head, thinking. “Was that our first married fight?”

Patrick huffs out a laugh. “ _Was_ that a fight? And anyway, no,” he continues. “We fought about vendor pickups last week.”

“Um, excuse _you_ ,” David snaps. “That wasn’t a _fight._ ”

“It wasn’t?”

“No.” David shakes his head vehemently. “That was _me_ voicing a perfectly reasonable concern about your fucking deathtrap of a car, and _you_ being ludicrously cavalier about your continued safety and well-being.”

“Oh, of course,” Patrick agrees, his level tone completely at odds with the smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth. “And that’s different from a fight because…”

“Because I’m right and you know it,” David tells him. “And because—” The rest of his argument gets lost against Patrick’s laughing mouth, words dissolving into a series of slow, affectionate kisses. “Don’t think you can distract me with your, your _wiles,_ ” David says. “I’m onto your tricks.”

“Good to know,” Patrick says, mouthing the words against David’s neck. “I’ll definitely, hmmm.” The scrape of his teeth along David’s pulse is unfairly distracting. “Keep that in mind.” He makes his way down the line David’s throat, slow sucking kisses that make David’s nerves sing with anticipation and desire.

“You do that,” David says, sliding his hands restlessly along the muscles of Patrick’s arms. “You be sure and—ah!” David jerks, gasping, as Patrick bites along his collarbone. “Fuck!”

“Mmm?” Patrick pulls back, his eyes sparkling with mischief, his mouth wet and red. “Did you want something, David?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know.” David shifts his weight, rocking down against the increasingly insistent press of Patrick’s dick and reveling in the way Patrick’s hands go tight on his hips. “Seems like maybe _you_ wanted something.”

“David, _fuck._ ” Patrick presses his head against David’s shoulder, breathing hard.

“A compelling argument, to be sure,” David agrees. He scratches his fingers gently through the hair at the nape of Patrick’s neck, right where it’s damp from the humidity and threatening to curl. “Feel free to elaborate on your vision.”

“Well.” Patrick leans back against the couch, looking up at David with a glint in his eye. “To start with, how would you feel about moving this to the bed?”

“ _Very_ positively,” David says, already leaning in for a kiss.

Even now, after three years together, after _I love you_ and _I do_ , here in the house that they own in the town David has stopped trying to pretend isn’t home—even now, kissing Patrick feels new every time. Gentle, lazy, frantic, demanding, tender, teasing: every kiss feels different, sends a fresh wave of fire racing through David’s body. 

This time, Patrick bites at David’s mouth and pulls him close, his hands greedy and insistent on David’s hips. David lets himself be moved, rocking down into Patrick’s lap in an easy, languid rhythm. He traces the familiar lines of Patrick’s shoulders, eyes closed, losing himself in sensation.

“You, mmm.” Patrick pulls back, minutes or millenia later, his eyes hazy, his mouth wet and red. “You’re going to have to get up first, David.”

“Well, _you’re_ going to have to let go of me.” David retorts. “Or are those somebody else’s hands on my ass?”

“Hmm, I don’t know.” Patrick squeezes firmly before letting go. “Could be Katharine Hepburn’s, I guess.” He holds his hands up next to his head, fingers spread wide and wiggling gently.

“If you start doing jazz hands, I’m leaving you.”

“That seems fair.” Patrick nods gravely. “Although, just to be clear, does this ban extend to spirit fingers?”

“You’re terrible,” David says. “You’re terrible and I don’t like you.” He shifts his weight so that he can lean against the arm of the couch and lever himself to his feet. There’s a little undignified stumbling, but David steadies himself in time, holding a hand out to Patrick. “Come on, get up, are we going to fuck or not?”

“Sending some mixed messages there, David,” Patrick says, but he lets David tug him up off the couch, his hands warm and slightly sweaty in David’s grip.

“I’ll mix _your_ messages.” It comes out too breathy to be menacing, even if it made sense in the first place. Patrick takes it in the spirit it was meant, though, and leans in for a slow, drugging kiss. 

They lose more time like that, trading kisses back and forth in the late afternoon light, easy affection with an undercurrent of heat. It’s sweet and familiar, Patrick’s hands tracing aimless lines across David’s back, his mouth warm and insistent at the corner of David’s mouth, the hinge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat. It’s exhilarating and grounding, reassuring and exciting at the same time, the kind of perfect moment that David used to hoard like exclusive invitations and cookies from Levain.

Now though, it’s different. Now, David can have this moment—maybe not _quite_ as often as he wants it, but every day at least, usually more than once. Now, he has Patrick, with his clean mouth and his gleaming eyes and his wandering hands, kissing him sweet and filthy and tender in the middle of the living room on a Tuesday afternoon, a treasure David couldn’t have imagined wishing for.

Eventually they pull apart, Patrick’s breathing sounding as shaky as David’s knees feel. David waits a beat, then clears his throat.

“Bed?” He raises an eyebrow, reveling in the flush at the back of Patrick’s neck, the way he bites down on his lower lip with his eyes hot and dark.

“I—yeah,” he says, and oh, he sounds _wrecked_ , even just from this. “Yeah, let’s—let’s do that.” His mouth is obscenely, perfectly wet; David leans in to steal one last kiss before turning to head for the bedroom, Patrick close behind him.

They hurry each other down the hallway and tumble through the door, breathless and delighted. David lets himself be pinned against the closet and kissed again, again, drowning in the slick greedy slide of Patrick’s tongue, the gentle drag of his teeth against David’s lower lip. It’s good— _fuck,_ it’s good—but eventually David gets a grip on Patrick’s shoulders and levers him back, holding him at bay.

“Clothes,” he says firmly.

“I—”

“Clothes,” David repeats. “As in, lose them.” He gives Patrick a little shove and drops his hands to the hem of his sweater, leading by example. “See?”

“Mmm, I’m not sure.” Patrick smirks, crossing his arms over his chest in the way that does horrible, wonderful things to his biceps and David’s stomach. He leans back against the dresser and licks his lips, showy and obvious, his eyes hot and dark as he watches David strip. “Maybe you should keep going.”

“Oh?” David pulls the sweater over his head with less care than Neil Barrett deserves, but whatever, it’s only the 2013 collection. Any damage to the sweater is more than worth it for the flare of desire on Patrick’s face, the way he bites his lip and stares, gripping his own elbows like he’s holding on to his self-control.

“David,” he says, voice low and rough. “David, _fuck._ ”

“Oh, I’d love to,” David agrees, folding the sweater neatly and laying over the back of the chair in the corner. “So, you know, any time you want to join me—” He tucks his thumbs into his joggers and boxers and pushes both down at once, leaving them puddled on the floor and stepping over to the bed naked. “Feel free,” he concludes, untucking the duvet and pulling it back to reveal crisp, clean sheets.

“Oh, I will.” Patrick goes silent after that, but David doesn’t turn around, focusing instead on dropping onto the bed, face-down. He spreads out as much as he can, reveling in the stretch in his shoulders, twisting his feet from side to side and feeling his ankles pop quietly. His whole body is thrumming with anticipation, but he makes himself stay put, eyes closed, skin prickling, waiting.

He doesn’t really need to see Patrick to know what he’s doing, anyway: even in the new house, the sounds of Patrick undressing are the same. That slow scrape is his belt, eased through the loops and set on the dresser with a muted _clink_ ; the slow metallic slide is the sound of a zipper being eased down. There’s a rustle of fabric as Patrick strips out of his clothes, a quiet thump as he drops them in the laundry basket, and then it’s just the steady pad of Patrick’s feet across the rug, the thunderous roar of David’s pulse.

“Hi there.” The words are paired with Patrick’s hand, sliding slowly from David’s ankle up the back of his leg in one smooth stroke. It’s the perfect touch: just firm enough not to tickle, still delicate enough to be a tease. 

“Mmm.” David shivers in pleasure and lets himself move with the motion, rocking down against the mattress in a slow, restless grind. It’s not enough to get him off, but it feels good all the same: spread out on the bed, sheets cool and smooth against his dick, Patrick’s hand warm and steady against his thigh. 

“ _Fuck._ ” 

David hides his grin against the sheet, knowing without looking that Patrick’s staring at him, dumbstruck and horny and blushing furiously.

“See, you keep saying that,” David says, arching his back just enough to press his hips up into Patrick’s grip. “But then you never—ah!” He cuts off, gasping, as Patrick’s hands shift to the inside of his thighs, shoving David’s legs apart and easing his weight down between them. 

“Does that meet your requirements?” Patrick isn’t quite tall enough to reach David’s ear, not like this; he murmurs the words against David’s shoulder blade instead. “Or would you prefer something else?” His dick is hard and obvious, pressing insistently into the crease of David’s thigh; David’s skin aches just thinking about it.

“No, no, this is good.” David can’t move much, spread-eagled and held firmly against the bed, but he spreads his thighs as much as he can, trying to get Patrick that much closer. “I’m _very_ interested to see where you’re going with this.”

“Well.” Patrick slides his hands up the bed until they’re bracketing David’s wrists, holding him steady and close. “I’d still really like to hear more about, you know.” His breathing stutters, gusting out against David’s skin. “The masseur.”

“Mm,” David sighs, too busy soaking in the feeling of being pinned and held to really listen. Patrick is tense, though, his breathing shallow and nervous, and that’s enough to make David force his way back to logic. “That’s—um.” He pulls against Patrick’s grip, which loosens instantly, Patrick shifting his weight backwards, freeing David from all of that delicious pressure. “Ugh, fuck,” David says, trying to roll over onto his back without kicking Patrick in the face or the balls. “I just need to—can you—”

“Here, let me—” Patrick catches his ankle, guiding it in a gentle arc and releasing it to the bed with a gentle pat.

“Thanks.” 

“Sorry,” Patrick replies nonsensically. “For, uh.” He blushes, looking down at his hands. “I kind of wrecked the mood, I guess.”

“I—no.” David blinks, trying to marshal the words he needs. “You just surprised me,” he says. “That’s all.” He shakes his head. “So—okay,” he says. “So the massage is—what’s the angle, here?”

“There’s not an _angle,_ ” Patrick says, his mouth twisting incredulously. “I just think it’s hot.” He raises an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to do that?”

“You’re _definitely_ allowed to do that.” David sits up and leans forward, waiting for Patrick to meet his eyes. “I just meant, what part of it is hot, for you?”

“I—” Patrick blinks, visibly startled. “I don’t know?”

“Okay, so, like.” David rests a hand on Patrick’s knee, rubbing his thumb back and forth over skin and muscle, the edge of bone. “Is it the massage itself?” Patrick shakes his head, which makes sense: they’ve done massages before, and while it was certainly enjoyable, it didn’t seem to ignite Patrick the way this is. _Whatever_ this is. David takes a deep breath, keeping his voice carefully level. “Was it Richard?” He didn’t _seem_ like Patrick’s type, but then again—

“No.” Patrick’s voice is even, his hand covering David’s and squeezing tightly. “It definitely wasn’t him.” His other hand comes up, his thumb tracing a warm line down David’s jaw. “It wasn’t, David.”

“Okay,” David says, too relieved to try and hide it. He frowns, thinking. “So it wasn’t the massage, and it wasn’t the masseur…”

“I guess it was—” Patrick swallows hard, biting his lip. “You didn’t even _know_ him. And it’s not—I love you,” he continues, “you know I love you, David, and I don’t want to—it’s just—” He sighs. “It’s _hot,_ ” he says plaintively. “Can’t it just be hot?”

“Oh, absolutely,” David says, his mind whirling. “So it’s the anonymity that does it for you?”

“I—yeah,” Patrick says. He’s blushing, the color bright in his cheeks, at the back of his neck, the points of his ears. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” David hesitates, weighing his options. “Because—”

“Because I’ve never done that,” Patrick says, his voice low. “I was with Rachel, and when I wasn’t with Rachel—” His face twists. “I hooked up, I guess, but it was always—” He shrugs. “I mean, I didn’t know them _well,_ but we at least got dinner first.”

“...okay,” David says, turning the idea over in his mind. “Yeah, okay, that makes sense.”

“Does it? Because I don’t—” Patrick swallows, takes a deep breath. “I don’t want, you know I don’t _actually_ want to—”

“Shhh,” David says, soothing his thumb over the bones of Patrick’s knee. “Shhh, no, I understand.” 

It makes a lot of sense, actually: anonymous gay sex is a cliché for a reason, and it’s a cliché that Patrick hasn’t ever had the chance to experience firsthand. David leans forward and presses a kiss to Patrick’s shoulder, throat tight with everything he feels.

“So for you,” he says, straightening up, “what was hot about that whole—thing—was that I didn’t even have to know his name for him to get me off.” He did, actually—Richard Morton; David still has his card—but that’s not the point. They’re into the fantasy now, David spinning the framework for the story they’ll tell together; reality is secondary. “The thought of some stranger with his hands all over me, or, hmm—” David tilts his head. “All over _you,_ maybe?”

“I—yeah.” Patrick’s voice is breathy, his eyes already fluttering closed. “Yeah, that’s—” He lets out a breath, a long sigh. “ _Fuck,_ why is that so hot?”

“Who knows?” David shrugs. “But do you really want to talk about _why_ it’s hot?” He rests his hand against Patrick’s chest, tipping him gently backwards onto the bed, spread out for David like a banquet. “Or do you want me to tell you what it felt like?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just slides his hand under the curve of Patrick’s shoulder and urges him over onto his front. “What it was like to have his hands on me, all over me?”

“David, oh.” Patrick shivers, his whole body tensing and then releasing under David’s hands. “Tell me,” he says, his voice low and wavering. “David, tell me, please.”

“Shh.” David slides a hand up Patrick’s body in a long slow glide, lingering over the tender backs of his knees, the curve of his ass, the points of his shoulder blades. He’s gorgeous like this, strong and vulnerable under David’s hands, trembling against the sheets they chose together. “I’ve got you,” he says, raking his fingers gently through Patrick’s hair. “It’s okay.”

“I know.” Patrick tilts his head to the side, tugging awkwardly at David’s wrist. “David, I know.” His eyes are blown wide, the perfect intersection of horny and breathlessly sincere.

God, David loves him.

“I—” David bites his lip and digs the nails of his free hand into his thigh, fighting for some semblance of equanimity. ”Okay,” he says, once he can more or less breathe again. “You want it from the beginning?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, the words halfway to a groan. “Tell me, David.” He shudders, his eyes flickering closed as he rocks against the bed. “Tell me everything.”

“Well, he had me strip down, to start.” David smirks. “But I guess we did that already.” He pulls his hand free of Patrick’s hair with an affectionate tug, then reaches down to the end of the bed. “And I lay down on the table with a sheet over me.” The sheet billows through the air as he pulls it up, floating down to settle delicately over Patrick’s back.

“And then?”

“And then—” David glances over at the nightstand and hesitates before grabbing the bottle of body milk. Not historically accurate, but good enough, and easier to clean out of the sheets. “Then he started working.” David tips a pool of lotion into the palm of his hands and shifts up the bed, reaching under the sheets to rub it into Patrick’s shoulders.

“Mmm.” Patrick sighs, his face beautifully relaxed. “Feels nice.”

“It did.” David eases his hands along Patrick’s spine in a slow, lazy glide. “He had really strong hands,” he adds, pressing down hard along the tense line of Patrick’s trapezius muscle. 

“ _You_ have strong hands.” Patrick’s voice sounds hazy already, sluggish and dreamlike. “I like your hands,” he adds. “Like them a _lot._ ”

“He was really confident, too,” David says, tracing the angles of Patrick’s shoulder blade. “I mean, not cocky, but he knew what he was doing, and I liked that.” He digs his thumb in, pressing until the muscle starts to release, Patrick’s skin warm and slick with lotion. “He just moved me to where he wanted me,” he says, remembering Richard’s capable hands, his low, steady voice. “Like I was just a body, for him.”

Patrick makes a low, desperate noise, trembling faintly under David’s hands. David smiles, shifting forward to lean down against the muscle of Patrick’s back.

“He worked me over I was all loose and relaxed, and then—” 

“Then?”

David scoots back, smoothing the sheet down over Patrick. “Then he got me on my back.” He tugs gently at Patrick’s shoulder, coaxing him to roll over. “Mmm, just like that.”

Patrick’s gorgeous like this, his flush vibrant against the white of their sheets. He’s sprawled across the bed, looking up at David through half-open eyes. He looks like luxury and indulgence, like lazy mornings in bed, like wanting and having and going back for seconds.

He looks hungry and sated and _perfect,_ and he’s all David’s.

“He got me on my back,” David repeats, “and then he lifted up his sheet and—” Patrick gasps, high and shocked, as David wraps a slick hand around his straining cock. “Yeah,” David says. “Like that.”

“What did, oh,” Patrick swallows, squeezing his eyes shut even as he thrusts gently into David’s grip. “What did you do?”

“I—honestly, I was really surprised.” David shakes his head, remembering. “I sat up, and I was going to tell him to stop, but then _he_ said—” He drops his voice low. “‘ _Your husband told me to take_ really _good care of you.’_ ” He punctuates the sentence with a twist of his wrist, his thumb sliding slickly over the head of Patrick’s dick. “He had a note and everything.”

And hadn’t that been a trip: Patrick’s tidy print, _please take very good care of him_, the sheet of printer paper folded into careful thirds. The thought that his deliberate, responsible husband had planned this for him, a _happy ending_ just to help him relax—David shivers, his skin prickling with arousal at the memory.

“He said, _‘Just relax and let me make you feel good,’_ ” David remembers. “He said it was what you wanted.”

“And what—” Patrick groans, low and needy. “What did you do?”

“Mmmm, what do _you_ think?” 

“ _David—_ ”

David can’t help but laugh at Patrick’s narrow glare, so at odds with the restless motion of his hips. “I let him, of course,” he says, leaning in to press a kiss to Patrick’s side in a wordless apology. “I stayed right where I was and let him take care of me.”

“What was it like?” Patrick’s voice is so soft that David has to lean in to hear him clearly. “What did it feel like, to have him touch you like that?”

“Well, like I said, he was _very_ good with his hands,” David says, and does his best to replicate it. Slow, firm strokes, lazy and confident, with a lingering twist on the upstroke. Patrick sighs, his breath already coming faster, the muscle of his thighs bunching as he starts to thrust, fucking up into David’s fist. “Shh, no.” David rests his free hand on Patrick’s hip and presses down, urging Patrick back against the sheets. “You’re relaxing, remember?”

“I—” Patrick takes a deep breath and David presses harder, anchoring Patrick in place.

“ _Relax,_ ” David repeats. “Let me take care of you.” He can see the exact moment when Patrick gives in, all of the fight going out of him. He breathes out in a long, shivery rush that leaves him sagging against the sheets, pliant and lovely under David’s hands. “Just like that, yeah,” David says, releasing his hold and trailing his fingers gently over Patrick’s side. “Doesn’t that feel nice?”

“It feels, oh—” Patrick’s voice is uneven, the words coming out in fits and starts as he trembles, sweet and vulnerable. “Feels so good, David.”

“Mmm, but I’m not David, remember?” Patrick’s eyes fly open and David lets his mouth curve in a smirk. “I’m just the man your husband hired to take care of you.” Patrick sucks in a breath, his hips jerking suddenly, pushing up into David’s hands. David slides his hand down to the base of Patrick’s dick and waits, his grip just shy of too tight. “You like that, hmm?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, I—I like it.”

“Naked in front of a complete stranger,” David murmurs, giving Patrick a languid stroke. “Spread out for him like a feast, letting him touch you all _over._ ” He pinches Patrick’s nipple, soothes the ache away with the pad of his thumb. “Do you even know his name?”

Patrick makes a high, desperate noise, his hands clenched in the sheets. He’s beautifully hard, his eyes hot and dark, his whole body shaking with urgency and need.

“It’s okay.” David draws his hand back and licks his palm, savoring the familiar bitter-salt tang of Patrick against his skin. He doesn’t need to, really; Patrick’s been leaking steadily since David got him on his back. Still, it’s worth it for the way Patrick shuts his eyes and then opens them again immediately, like he can’t bear to look away.

“You don’t need to know his name,” David says, wrapping his hand back around Patrick’s dick and beginning a steady stroke, tight and slick, just the way Patrick likes it. “You don’t need to think about him at all,” he tells Patrick. “You can just stay there and let him take care of you, just like this.” 

“David, oh, oh—” David keeps going, watching the tension rise in Patrick’s body, higher and higher until suddenly Patrick breaks, shattered apart by pleasure, wild and beautiful. David works him through it with gentle hands, bringing Patrick right up to the edge of overstimulation before pulling away. “Fuck.” Patrick drops his head back against the pillows, gulping down air like a diver resurfacing. “That was—oh my _God._ ”

“Mmm, it was, wasn’t it?” David shifts his weight and stretches out along the bed, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of Patrick’s flushed skin. David’s hard, but his arousal feels far away somehow, a distant second to the sweet, possessive curl of satisfaction in his chest as he looks at Patrick. The slow, unfocused blink of Patrick’s eyes; the color in his cheeks; the way he flexes his fingers like he’s learning how to use them all over again: David takes them all, folding them away in his mind for safekeeping. 

“It was just—” Patrick drags his hands over his face, shaking his head. “Holy fuck.” He rolls over onto his side, facing David, his face entirely too serious for someone who’s literally just come. “But you know that I—I mean, I don’t want you to think —”

“Shh, no, shhh.” David wipes his fingers on the sheets and then rests them on Patrick’s lips, cutting him off. “I know, Patrick.”

“Do you?” Patrick murmurs the words against David’s hand, his lips dragging against the pads of David’s fingers. “Because I don’t _really_ want—it’s just—”

“I know,” David says, startled to find that it’s true. It’s not like Patrick has changed him; he’s still anxious and high-strung and, okay, perhaps _slightly_ prone to overreaction. Somehow, though, somewhere along the way from that first meeting Ray’s living room, David has stopped doubting this, doubting _them._ Patrick loves him: it’s become an immutable fact of the universe, a solid place to stand. “Seriously, I get it.” He presses a kiss to Patrick’s flushed cheek, another to the worried curve of his eyebrow. “You’re allowed to have fantasies, remember?” David taps his thumb gently against Patrick’s lips. “Whether or not it ever happens in real life, whether or not you even tell me—” He shrugs. “I trust you.”

“David—” Patrick’s hands go tight against David’s shoulder, his eyes closing as he breathes out, slow and careful. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I—thank you, David.”

“Of course.” David brushes another kiss to Patrick’s forehead, then leans back. “But, okay, the real question is—” He pauses for emphasis, smoothing his face to something resembling sincerity. “Was it as good as you were hoping?”

Patrick quirks his eyebrow like he knows David’s fishing for a compliment, then promptly spoils it by wrapping a hand around David’s neck and dragging him close for a kiss. It’s beautiful, loose and sweet and messy in the way Patrick always is after an orgasm, and David sinks into it willingly, letting Patrick reel him in. Patrick’s mouth is warm and greedy against David’s, his muscles still quivering with aftershocks of pleasure. His hands card through David’s hair, doubtless wreaking havoc on a carefully crafted look, and David lets him, leaning close, chaining kiss onto kiss until his lips are buzzing with sensation.

“Pretty good, yeah,” Patrick says, breaking away from the kiss. 

David has to take a moment, pulling back to frown down at Patrick and fumble for the thread of their conversation. He asked a question, probably, since Patrick is answering it, and that question was—was—

“Oh, fuck you,” David says, but there’s no heat to the words, no sting, just this boundless, terrifying swell of affection that Patrick always brings out in him.

“Mm, no.” Patrick’s grin is revoltingly smug, so obviously David has to kiss it. “Think we already did that one,” Patrick continues, gratifyingly breathless. “Now it’s your turn.”

“I—oh,” David says, the words coming out halfway to a groan as Patrick wraps a hand around his cock. “I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah?” Patrick works David’s dick gently, a featherlight touch that’s lazy and delicious and infuriating. “You got a fantasy you want to tell me about?”

“Yeah, the fantasy where you let me _come._ ” David tilts his hips encouragingly, but Patrick just laughs and gentles his grip even further.

“It’s only fair,” Patrick says, his fingers tracing slow circles over the head of David’s cock. “I told you one of mine, so now you should tell me one of yours.”

“I—” David bites his lip, struggling to think past the feeling of Patrick’s hands on him, slick and insistent. “We don’t have to,” he says, rocking up into Patrick’s grip. “This is just fine, really.”

“Mmm, but what if I want to hear?” Patrick gives David one slick, tight stroke, then goes back to those glancing touches, excruciating and obscene and not nearly enough. “Because I do, David,” he says, his voice low and hot. “Anything you want to tell me, I want to hear.” His mouth quirks. “Even if it’s about Katharine Hepburn.”

“Listen—” Patrick starts kissing his way up David’s thigh, slow sucking pressure and the delicate scrape of teeth; David loses his train of thought entirely. “Fuck, okay, uh—” David squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think. It can’t be something super high-concept; that’s not the mood, and anyway he doesn’t have the patience to explain any kind of backstory. Something simple, something fun, something—

“David.” Patrick’s smile is wryly affectionate, like he knows exactly which knots David’s brain is tying itself into. “It’s not a trick question,” he says, ducking down to soothe his mouth over the point of David’s hip. “There’s no wrong answer.”

“Fuck.” The word explodes out of David, a plea, a curse, a prayer. “Fuck, okay, just—” He drags his hands over his face, sucking in a breath and letting it out as slowly as he can bear. “Okay.” When he opens his eyes, Patrick is kneeling next to him, patient and familiar, beloved.

“Take your time,” Patrick says, easy, unconcerned. “There’s no rush.”

“Easy for _you_ to say.” David shifts his hips restlessly. “Meanwhile I’m over here, neglected, _deprived—_ ” He loses the rest of his sentence as Patrick bends over to press a wet, messy kiss to the head of David’s cock, filthy and beautiful and over far too soon.

“You were saying?”

“I—” David blinks. “I don’t know?”

“You were going to tell me about a fantasy of yours,” Patrick prompts. “Something you think about, something that gets you off.”

“Right.” Abruptly, the idea that’s been wavering at the edges of David’s thoughts snaps into clarity, crips lines settling into place with a sense of inevitability. David props himself up on his elbows, thinking about logistics. “Here, can you just—” He lifts up his right leg until Patrick can duck under it, settling with his knees just brushing the insides of David’s thighs. “Exactly.” David glances around and retrieves the bottle of body milk from the sheets, replacing it on the nightstand and selecting a different bottle. “Hands, please?”

Patrick obediently holds out his hands, letting David pour a generous amount of lube into them with little more than a raised eyebrow.

“Right, okay.” David drops the lube off the side of the bed and leans back. “So this is kind of like yours, actually.”

“Really?” Patrick tilts his cupped hands back and forth, transferring the slick shimmer from one palm to the other. “How so?”

“Well, we don’t know each other,” David says. “I’m happily married, and you’re the masseur my husband has hired to take care of me.” He wraps a hand around Patrick’s wrist, pulling until the pads of Patrick’s fingers are just brushing against his ass. “Very, _very_ good care of me.”

“I see.” Patrick rubs a slick circle around David’s hole, a slow spiral of pressure that leaves David’s nerves humming. “You know, David, I can’t help but notice that this is more than just a little bit similar to my fantasy.”

“Mmm, but it’s different, though.” David rocks his hips down, trying to get Patrick’s fingers where he needs them. “Because I’m married, see?” He hisses out a sigh as Patrick finally gives him what he needs, a single finger pressing inexorably inside, stretching David just so. “But my husband is, oh—” 

“What was that about your husband?” Patrick accompanies his words with a second finger, almost too soon, too much. His free hand traces aimless patterns over David’s thigh, his hip, his balls, delicate and infuriating.

For a second, David seriously considers giving in, fucking himself hard and fast on Patrick’s fingers, shivering his way over the edge, letting Patrick take him apart—

—but no. There’s a _narrative_ here. David bites his lip and keeps going.

“Well, he’s a businessman, you know,” David says. “Very busy, very important. Lots of, mmm—” Patrick’s fingers glance over David’s prostate and he shivers, melting down into the sheets. “Lots of work to do.”

“Okay…” David opens his eyes just enough to see Patrick’s expression: bemused, but not uninterested.

“And _because_ he’s so busy and serious and important,” David continues, “he doesn’t always have time to, mmmmm.” He licks his lips. “See to my needs.”

“Well now.” Patrick adds, fuck, a third finger, thick blunt pressure and that perfect, excruciating stretch, his thumb rubbing back and forth along David’s perineum. “That seems pretty inconsiderate, David.”

“Mmm, no, it’s good.” David lifts his hands over his head and presses them flat to the headboard, bracing himself as Patrick’s hand speeds up. “Because he’s rich, right, so he just—” David shifts his weight, imagining it. “Just hires people, to, oh—”

“To take care of you.” Patrick’s voice is low and rich, thick with arousal and emotion. “To make sure you get what you need.” He starts fucking David in earnest now, fingers curved just right, his other hand wrapping slick and tight around David’s dick. “Is that it?”

“Yes, oh, yes.” David digs his heels into the mattress, lifting his hips to meet Patrick’s thrusts. “And I don’t—fuck—don’t have to—”

“Don’t have to do anything at all,” Patrick continues. “You just stay right where you are and get fucked, hmmm?” His hands settle into a slow, sultry rhythm, a lazy syncopation that leaves David gasping for breath, pleasure washing through him in waves. “Well, I hope they do a good job, at least.”

“Oh, they _do,_ because he, mmm—” David shoves up into Patrick’s grip, trying to get faster, tighter, _more,_ groaning when Patrick refuses to be rushed. “He tells them what I like,” David says, the words squeezed out around gasps as Patrick wrenches him higher in tiny, merciless increments. “He tells them just how to fuck me, how to touch me, how to get me off.”

“Does he tell them how much you like to be teased?” Patrick’s fingers are just where David needs them, perfectly angled to drive David out of his mind. “How you like to wait for it?”

“I, wait, no, _what?_ ” David catches the warning in Patrick’s words, but it’s too late: Patrick pulls away, all of that delicious pressure and fullness gone as he sits back on his heels, smirking down at David. “I _hate_ you,” David tells him. “You’re the _worst._ ”

“I’m just doing what your husband told me to do,” Patrick says, unrepentant. “He said that you like it better when you have to work for it.” His fingers draw slow circles around David’s entrance, slick and teasing and ruthlessly good.

“Well, maybe you should—” David gulps for air, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. “Maybe you should care a little more about what _I_ think, under the circumstances.”

“Hmmm.” Patrick tilts his head in a parody of thoughtful consideration. “I don’t know,” he says, eyes sparkling even as he frowns. “He had a pretty detailed action plan.” He leans in close, his fingers tracing gently over David’s balls. “There were _process diagrams._ ”

“Oh, well, in _that_ case, by all means, carry on.” David rolls his eyes, but it actually—

“You like that, hmm?”

“No,” David says, but it’s too quick, too obvious. Patrick’s smirk widens, his hands still moving aimlessly over David’s dick, his thighs, his perineum. “Okay, look, it’s not like I have some kind of a _kink_ , it’s just—” David rubs his hands restlessly down his thighs, trying to find the words. 

It’s not the process diagrams themselves, not really; those loom too large in David’s actual professional life for him to really find them sexy at this point. It’s everything else: Patrick sitting down at their wobbling kitchen table with a legal pad and a ballpoint pen, mapping out contingencies and alternatives in crisp clear lines. He draws boxes around the different outcomes, arrows connecting them; when he changes his mind about something, he crosses it out in a single definitive stroke. Sometimes he hesitates, tapping the end of the pen against the table or worrying his thumbnail between his teeth. Appalling personal habits, both of them, _obviously_ , and yet somehow—

“He makes plans,” David says, the words drawn out of him like a fish on a hook, wriggling and startled. “He thinks about me, even when I’m not there, even when he’s not here.” The idea lands somewhere in David’s ribcage and spreads, radiating heat and a terrifying sort of affection. “He wants to take _care_ of me.”

“I—” Patrick bites his lip, his face momentarily unreadable. “David, _fuck_ ,” he says, in the split second before David’s anxiety can take over. “Fuck, I want that so much.” He curls forward, pressing his mouth to David’s thigh in a lingering kiss. “I want to make you feel so good, David, you have no idea.” His lips drag against David’s thigh as he talks, wet and messy and perfect.

“Well, I’m not complaining.” David shivers as Patrick’s kisses turn sharper, greedier, the kind of kissing that’s barely a breath away from biting. He’ll leave marks, maybe; David hopes so. “And any time you want to—fuck,” he says, his fists clenching in the sheets, “fuck, Patrick, _fuck._ ”

“Like that?” Patrick doesn’t wait for David to answer, just pulls his fingers out and then shoves them back in, a delicious stretch that leaves David’s nerves singing, his mind reeling. “Is that what you need?”

“I, oh—” It’s so much, too much, overwhelming and ecstatic, electrifying. David bites down on his lip, trying to hold out a little longer, rolling his hips against Patrick’s thrusts. “More,” he sighs, “please, I need, just—

“Shhh, shhh,” Patrick says, his voice low and soothing. “I’ve got you, David.” He presses a single delicate kiss to the thin skin over David’s hip bone, his eyes fluttering closed for a breathless half-second, and then—and then—

“Holy _fuck_ ,” David groans, trying in vain to shove his dick further into Patrick’s mouth. Patrick doesn’t flinch, though, his hands like granite on David’s hips even as his mouth slides down, down, _down_. “Fuck, oh my God, oh, _oh—_ ” In a heartbeat, David’s done, lost in a wash of pleasure, coming in Patrick’s mouth until his entire body is trembling, wrung out and left in a boneless, satiated heap.

“What was that?” Patrick pulls back, swiping the back of his hand across his face like he didn’t just have David’s dick halfway down his throat. “I think I missed that last bit.”

“Please.” David rolls his eyes. “Stop being smug, it’s not a good look for you.” From the look on Patrick’s face, though, David doesn’t quite manage to sell the lie. “Shut up,” David says as a matter of principle. “Shut up, and also get me a washcloth.”

“Making a lot of demands, there, David,” Patrick says mildly, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the top of David’s thigh. “There’s such a thing as afterglow, you know.”

“And we’ll enjoy it,” David agrees. “ _Later._ ” Patrick’s generous with the lube, which David always appreciates in the moment and invariably rues afterwards. He’s _dripping,_ and not in a sexy way.

“I’m holding you to that.” Patrick gives David’s leg a last affectionate pat and slides off the bed. David watches him go, the easy confidence in his shoulders, the just-fucked looseness to his spine, the frankly ridiculous curve of his ass. _God,_ David married well.

Patrick leaves the room and David lets himself sink into the bed, lazy and sated. He stretches languidly, savoring the way it feels to move a body that’s still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, the memory of Patrick’s hands on him, in him. The sunshine is warm against his skin, turning the insides of his closed eyelids warm and red. The window is open, and David can just hear the children next door having some kind of elaborate treehouse adventure. 

He can hear other things, too: the squeak of the linen closet door, the hum of the fan in the bathroom, the swish of water through the pipes. Patrick’s footsteps, coming steadily closer until they stop next to the bed.

“Mmm, yes please.” David spreads his legs without opening his eyes, Patrick’s gaze like a physical weight against his skin.

“Not going to offer any help?”

“Well, I _would,_ ” David says, “but I figure, you made the mess, you ought to clean it up.” He pauses. “Also, I don’t think I can stand right now.”

“Well, in that case.” The washcloth is cold on David’s skin, a pleasant contrast to the warmth of the day, the slight stickiness of his sweaty skin. “Here, lift up.” He slides a hand under David’s knee and lifts his thigh, leaving him spread, exposed, pinned by the heat of Patrick’s gaze. “You good?”

“I—yeah,” David says, squirming against the gentle scrape of terrycloth over flushed, tender skin. It’s not enough to get him off, or even really to get him hard again, but it’s good nonetheless: a quiet shiver of pleasure, a promise and a reminder. David keeps his eyes closed and lets Patrick work, his hands moving across David’s body with the easy confidence of familiarity. He cleans David gently, methodically, folding the washcloth over itself periodically to keep a clean surface against David’s skin.

“All done,” Patrick says, lowering David’s leg back down. He settles onto the bed next to David, fumbling at the bottom of the bed for a moment before finding the hem of the sheet and drawing it up over their bodies. He pauses, still sitting up, his muscles oddly tense under David’s wandering hands, then makes a sudden, brusque movement.

The sound from across the room is promising, but David cracks an eye open enough to give Patrick a warning look.

“If you leave a wet washcloth on our hardwood floors—”

“I made the laundry basket, don’t worry.” Patrick scoots down the bed, drawing the sheets up to his chin and rolling onto his side to face David. “Naptime, I take it?”

“Did you have any other plans?”

“Mmm, no.” Patrick nestles down into the pillow, his mouth curving in a quiet smile. “Nap sounds good.”

The afternoon stretches out around them, golden light through the curtains and the gentle brush of Patrick’s knuckles against his waist. David tips forward until he can rest his mouth against Patrick’s forehead, less a kiss than a sigh of contentment.

“And, you know, if—” Patrick’s voice is loud in the sleepy afternoon sunlight, his breathing audible. “I mean, if you ever wanted to tell me about Katherine Hepburn, I’d—” He shifts onto his side, blushing but meeting David’s eyes determinedly. “You could do that.”

“I—yeah.” David bites his lip, swallowing back the knot of affection that swells his throat. “I think I’d like that,” he says, and oh, he means it, he _means_ it.

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, David and Patrick talk about the "happy ending" from the series finale and share fantasies around anonymous sex. If that's not something you want to read, give this one a skip!


End file.
